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Ice, Ice, Baby

25 Jan

Dun dun dun digg-a dun dun.
Happy Lollipop Tuesday!  If you’re still unclear about how awesome Tuesdays on thejackieblog are, check out my handy dandy new page on the top, titled “What’s Lollipop Tuesday?”  Welcome to the party.  Sit down.  Have a beer.
 
I have had the nagging desire to go ice skating since I first moved to the city to go to college.   Being the antisocial, anti-change, anti-courageous dumpling that I am, I’ve never been able to muster the mojo to go.  It’s been 5 years.
 
But hey – there’s nothing like the pressure of Freshly Pressed and some serious new traffic to turn on the heat.  So last night at 8pm, I waddled myself out onto a large, intimidating slab of ice.
 
I’m slightly alarmed at how easily the general public is allowed to strap on a pair of thin steel blades and go gallavanting on a manmade ice pond.  I feel as if some sort of training is in order.  Or a permit. 
 
At least a tutorial on how to put the skates on.  I consider myself to be a generally intuitive person.  Rental Ice Skates, however, are not intuitive.  To be frank, they’re more like medieval torture devices than ice skates.   Dave, concerned about my ability to ice skate when I can barely demonstrate balance with sneakers in the cereal aisle, decided it was best for my safety to make sure I was strapped in good and tight.  Something about ankle safety.  I couldn’t really tell you; I was focusing on my newly acquired vice grips and the lack of blood going to my toes.
 
Donning my bright blue slippers of death, I slowly inched toward the gladiator’s arena.
 
And I mean inched.  Like a one-legged penguin.
 
When I finally arrived to the ramp, I was glad to see that there were very few people partaking in the hidden joys of ice skating that particular evening.  What I wasn’t glad to see was that they all appeared to be Olympians.
 
People were skating in circles, backward, forward, in couples, legs in the air, speed skating… it was a jungle out there.  A big, scary, icy jungle of doom.  And I was right in the thick of it, waddling.
 
I started out slow.  Mostly because the majority of my brain power was replaying videos of Nancy Kerrigan in my head in beautiful tiny skater lady dresses and sparkly tights (and larger than average nostrils).   How could she…how could anyone be graceful in this getup? 
 
Dave was a champ.  He was the third wheel to my tricycle and he lovingly pretended that he didn’t know what he was doing because he knows how hard it is for me to suck so terribly at new things.  But when I pulled him every which way so that I weebled and wobbled but wouldn’t fall down, I got the nagging feeling that he was no beginner.
 
My suspicions proved true when, after I’d thrown in the towel, he took a few laps on his own, quickly, balanced, and even doing a tight little spinny thing to get to the carpeted ramp.
 
Damn actors.
 
I really did stick at it, and for that I can say I’m proud.  I started at a firm, slow waddle and holding onto Dave for dear life.  I finished unattached, at a decent speed, and slightly balanced.   I’d say I was a level 1 when I started and when I finished I was a solid level 3.
 
I’m so sorry about those darn Dungeons and Dragons references.   They just creep up on me.
 
For some reason I got it in my head that I couldn’t truly say that I had experienced ice skating unless I experienced falling.   But, scared to death to fall because I’m as fragile as Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas (sans sewing skills), I couldn’t just make it happen.  It had to happen naturally.
 
And it did.
 
I’ll be sporting a minor limp today at work, due to the massive and super awesome wipeout I had in the center of the rink. 
 
So it’s official: I can cross this one off my bucket list.  Five years of fear was conquered by one fairly daunting subscriber base.   Wow…Who knows what the pressure might drive me to do by week 52.  ♣
 
 

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I Blame Old People

24 Jan

I’m convinced that the world would be a much safer place to live in if old people didn’t have cell phones.

Or maybe just less annoying.

Listen, I’m really sorry to have to be the one to say this because making fun of old people supposedly shortens your life expectancy, but I’m willing to take one for the team.

I constantly hear people complain about “these kids and their cell phones” on the road, in conversation,and at the dinner table.  And I certainly agree that unfortunately technology develops and improves faster than the rate of our etiquette.  Remember how long Facebook was out before we all collectively decided it just wasn’t okay to run around poking people or plastering personal information of an embarrassing or degrading nature on each other’s walls?  And we’re just finally getting to the point where we are pressuring people to stop posting personal, individual-related, emo status updates. 

So I understand.  I really do.  I don’t like a gum-chomping, oblivious teenage cell phone driver any more than the next guy.  But I have to admit that when I look around on the roads, I see a lot more old people doing it.

When I’m stuck behind a car that isn’t hitting the gas within 3 seconds of a green light, it’s not always a youngin in the front seat.  And when I’m out in social situations, it isn’t just the kiddos who are pulling out their cell phones in the middle of conversations. 

 I was attempting to cross the road to my house the other evening and spotted an older woman in a minivan full of children (presumably her own) approaching an intersection with her texting phone propped up on the steering wheel, eyes fully locked on the keyboard.

I’ve also heard far too many times that “these kids” constantly google things on their phones when in the middle of a conversation.  And that is definitely true.  I’m not really sure how it’s considered a flaw to want to end a debate quickly with the introduction of fact, but that’s another issue entirely.  The point is that we aren’t the only ones.

Dave and I had the pleasure of a few friends visiting us this weekend, one of whom was a baby boomer and came with his iEverything in tow.   Within the course of three hours, I witnessed him walk around my house scanning the barcodes off of random products in order to demonstrate an app’s ability to find the lowest price available in the local market for that item.  He also used his iPhone to google something and end a slightly charged debate about the date of Leslie Nielsen’s death.

And when we were at dinner, he couldn’t resist scanning the barcode on his beer bottle.  You know, just to see.

So stop blaming us.  Because as much as cell phones may be a product of our generation, we are not solely responsible for bearing the social and safety foibles that result from it.  We all are.  And for every kid who thinks they can eat fast food, drive stick shift, and text their buddy at the same time, there is an old fart attempting to read a text from her best friend while running through an intersection with a van full of kids.

And don’t get me started on the inappropriate things that old people post on their children’s walls.

So hey – I’m not solely blaming old people.  I’m just blaming them enough to balance out the blame that has been thrown onto young people’s shoulders all these years.    All of us are very excited about the cool things we can do with mind-bogglingly tiny gadgets.  And we are all very excited to explore their possibilities at all hours of the day regardless of whether it is a social faux pas or a safety hazard to those around us.

So let’s just stop pointing fingers and start spending our time updating our rules of etiquette.  Because I think we could all benefit from agreeing on a few things.  Let’s start with agreeing on how we’re all to blame. ♣

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Orinoco Flow

23 Jan

Last night I got stressed and listened to Enya.

You know – pale faced, same-hair-for-20-years, Sail Away Enya.

It’s okay – I’m not ashamed.  There’s something very soothing about her carefully orchestrated harmonies with her own voice.   I mean, I have to admit that I have no idea what she’s saying half the time and I have absolutely no desire to change that.  She could be chanting some crazy Celtic witch curse into my ears and it would still calm my nerves at the end of a high blood pressure day.

I remember when I first heard an Enya song.  It was for a CD called “Pure Moods” that had its own infomercial trying to get people to dish out $17.99 plus shipping and handling (or $15.99 for cassette.  Cassette!) for what it called “the perfect soundtrack for your way of life.”   I wasn’t quite sure what that meant.  There’s a lot of chanting, humming, and tubular bells on this particular compilation.  What could America possibly have been doing in 1997 that made the Pure Moods Marketing Team think that this was the perfect soundtrack for its way of life? 

Apparently a lot of horseback riding and meditating in rooms full of candles.    Enya herself is featured in what appears to be a chalk pastel with a random hummingbird over her shoulder. 

Go ahead, take a look.  I’m sure you’ll remember it → Pure Moods

 No really, go ahead. I’ll wait.  I want you to experience the enchantment.

…

…

…

You really can’t beat the tactics there.  Did you hear what he was saying?! My favorite line is “Set adrift with the timeless pleasures of Tubular Bells”  I didn’t realize that Tubular Bells was a timeless pleasure.  And quite frankly I’m not so sure that I’m okay with people labeling things as timeless pleasures all willy-nilly like that.

A commercial like this really brings me back to the good ol’ times with my first cassette, which I stole from my older brother – Ace of Base.  Which I’m also not ashamed of.   Because the combination of their thick beats, sassy lyrics, and European chicks was too much to resist for almost anyone in the 90’s.   I specifically remember the junky little cassette player and headphones I had.  I would sit around flipping and playing it over and over again while penning in grammatical corrections to the lyrics on the insert.

Yes, I’m really that anal.

And yes, my brother was very, very unhappy with the discovery.

I’m curious – and after 2o something posts, I have yet to do one where I ask you about yourselves.  So tell me: what was your first record/8-track/cassette/CD/wondrous invisible music download?

Regale me.   I want to be regaled. ♣

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Snap, Crackle and Pop

22 Jan



I am being terrorized by my own apartment.

Every single move I make generates some sort of electric activity. 

At first I thought it was a recipe for a good time.  I ran around the house in my little sweater booties trying to generate as much bad mojo as possible and then go after Dave like a heat seeking missile.  I was powerful.  I was magical.   I was a real life Palpatine, shooting arcs of lightning from my fingers and devastating others with the blow.

Okay, so if I back off the hyperbole, I was really just annoying Dave and putting my cats in a very, very bad mood.

But after all the impish fun wore off and everyone ignored me, it was just me and my newfound powers.  Alone.  All the time.   And you know what?  I’m really, really tired of it.   I want to be able to turn lights on and off again.  I want to be able to touch metallic surfaces.  I want to stop recoiling in fear every time Dave approaches me.

Last night I attempted to turn off my bedroom light only to be greeted with a massive lightning arc from Zeus himself which shot from the switch to my finger and up my entire right arm.  The snapping sound was so loud that Dave heard it in the kitchen. 

…There are two rooms between the kitchen and my bedroom.

The worst is when I take all that bad carpet rubbing mojo to the sink.  Sometimes I turn on the water to the unnerving sensation of a wave of electricity rippling ever so slightly through my forearm.

It’s the radiators.  I know it’s them.  I can hear them spitting and hissing their terrible dryness into the air.  My apartment sounds like it belongs to the Mad Hatter, with full pots of tea at a high whistle at all hours of the day and night. 

I tried the humidifier thing for a while, convinced it was the answer to all my troubles.   I filled it up every single night and put it beside my bed in hopes that one day I would wake and my tongue wouldn’t be an arid, cracked desert of misery.  But all it did was add a bubbling noise to my bedroom teapot choir and confuse my cats.   I spent most of my time before falling asleep trying to explain to them that steam isn’t actually tangible.

I don’t know what else to do.  I thought that perhaps my humidifier was subpar so I faced my fear of stupid people one weekend and trekked to a department store only to be greeted by a variety of strange devices that don’t look well-equipped for the job.   Since when do people want vaporizers and humidifiers that look like zoo animals? I can’t trust an elephant that shoots steam out of its trunk to understand my problems.  I just can’t.

I need to find a solution.  I’m going through skin cream like I own stock in it and waking up ten minutes earlier each morning just to allow enough time to reintroduce saliva to my system.  Separating my sheet from my comforter when making my bed is the absolute worst part of my day. I’ve abandoned my sweater boots for bare feet in an attempt to minimize my confrontations with Zeus and I’m experimenting with flicking light switches with different body parts until I find the one that has the least pain associated with the zap.  I can probably publish my findings in an attempt to aid other dry-dwellers across the land.

Whatever the solution, I need to find it quickly.  Because I’m almost considering going outside to ease the anxiety. 

And that means it’s serious.  ♣

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Kitty Cocoa Puffs

21 Jan

Those look like Cocoa Puffs. I wish my cat barfed Cocoa Puffs.

 

Of all the days to barf on my coat, why did my cat have to choose today?  It snowed, for Pete’s sake.

I suppose I brought it on myself.  I should have hung it up.  Inevitably, when my jet black peacoat is left out on any flat surface, my obese felines only have two options: 1) take up residence on it, leaving a thick fur trail as evidence of their shifting during their nap  2) barf on it.

This morning, it was the latter.

You know, for a moment I had some kind of a sick satisfaction about it.  Because about a week ago, I bought a Groupon for drycleaning services and today’s event proved it was a wise investment.  

But it’s the gatling gun effect that really gets me.  You know, the gatling gun effect: walk-stop-barf, walk-stop-barf.  The first pile of kitty krunch an owner finds is seldom alone.  It’s joined by a series of other unfortunate incidents which are scattered around the house  and must be carefully and thoroughly sought out for fear of the dreaded puke-in-the-toes.  Sometimes this is a result of a hard-to-reach hairball in the deep recesses of their kitten throats.  Sometimes, they just like to take a leisurely stroll while they puke.  Like it’s no big deal.

And so I suffered in the harsh, cold winter air of the city today.  Let it be known that when faced with the choice between barf-stained coat or no coat at all, I will take the high road.  

I just wish that my cats had a little more consideration for me.  After all I do for them, this is how they repay me.

I sound like a wounded mother.

And you know what? Maybe I am.  I can name without effort numerous occasions where my cats have shown a blatant lack of respect for me.

Like the time I came home from a weekend vacation and found that the bamboo jar on the entertainment center had been knocked over and onto our new television, sending it into a poltergeist-like flurry of unstoppable channel flipping, volume adjusting madness.  A chunk of fur was found in the vase and submitted to the court as the incriminating evidence. 

And then there are the times that they dash into the refrigerator when I’m thinking about what to eat and absolutely refuse to come out unless by brute force.

Or last night, even.  Hobbes claimed the coffee table as his own and systematically began pushing everything out of his way: magazines, coasters, cups, controls…  As a final act of defiance, he pushed the candy dish off. It fell to the ground, spilling a pool of foil-wrapped wonders all over the carpet, which my other cat, Lola, proceeded to spastically bat around the living room. They’re an unrelenting tag team of terror.

But there are little things they do on occasion that make them absolutely irresistable.  The belly-up pose in the living room, the taking-up-residence-in-the-bathroom-sink, the frequent visits to my lap and assault on my hands as I curl up to relax, and (my favorite) the adorable cat nap that inspires a human nap.   Surely, the ultimate win for my crazy cat lady antics is being able to curl up to a warm kitten, forget all my worries, and drift off to sleep.

Until I wake to the sound of its regurgitation. ♣

 

So some of you were grossed out by yesterday’s post.  And understandably so. U.U.S.S. is an unfortunate and unpleasant reality for millions of suffering Americans.  And I promised you the hope of a more pleasant post today.  …But it has just now occured to me that I posted about cat barf.  I’m deeply sorry for this oversight.  Perhaps tomorrow I’ll write about freshly laundered linens and rainbow sprinkles.

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U.U.S.S.

20 Jan

My battle with underarm unpleasantries runs my life.

In fact, I would almost call it dehabilitating.  Really.  If I could make one of those terrible pharmaceutical commericals, I would show people from all age brackets beyond puberty dealing with the heavy, personal burden of underarm skunk, barred up in their bedrooms out of fear.  After a montage of these folks being suddenly accosted by the sweat storm brewing in their greasy pits, I would offer solace – a golden beacon of light behind a perfect antiperspirant, one offering both salvation from wetness and odor.

Unfortunately, this product does not actually exist.

Really – it can’t.  It can’t possibly exist.  Because I’m pretty darn sure I’ve tried everything – women’s, men’s, spray on, rub on, powder, prescription, clinical strength-and I still trust no product enough to be able to shop for blouses in confidence.

You know what I’m talking about.   There are certain materials that are not underarm friendly and as a result cannot be purchased by sufferers of U.U.S.S. (Unavoidable Underarm Skunk and Swamp).    Thin cotton? Forget it.  Fine Silk? Ruined in 30 minutes.  My pits are an unstoppable sweaty stinky force to be reckoned with.

I once knew a girl who had a procedure to remove the sweat glands from her underarms.  It sounded to me like absolute euphoria.   I could imagine no greater aspiration than my freedom from the cold, lonley cage of pit perils.

I later found out that a natural side effect of removing underarm sweat glands is increased perspiration in other areas of the body.  Gross.

Once, last year, I thought I would try the complete opposite and see if it helped my cause.  Yes, that’s correct; I went an entire day with absolutely no underarm aid whatsoever.  Just fresh, clean, Jackie dew.  And you know what? I was actually all right.  For some reason I sweated less, and the sweat that I had didn’t even stink.   I was startled and confused.

Of course, I dropped the practice the very next day for fear that I had finally flung over the full-fledged hippie fence and I haven’t looked back since.

Next thing you know, I’d stop shaving my underarms and start a nice set of dreds.  My family would undoubtedly disown me.  I’m toeing the line as it is.

And so I must trudge on with my personal burden.  It is mine to carry and so I shall.  Long gone are the days when I could slather on “Teen Spirit” and a smile to face my day.   I’ve reached a new chapter in my life.   And until I turn on the T.V. to a sincere female voice describing my social inhibitions and everyday struggles as a result of U.U.S.S., followed by a brilliant beam of light and a life-saving product, it appears this new chapter will be a damp one.  ♣

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Starbucks Pastries: Little Dough Devils

19 Jan

The Den of Sin

Starbucks pastries get me every single time.

I’d like this think it’s not my fault.   After all – I’m pretty convinced that nearly anything can look divine on a white pedestal behind a clean glass case.   Mere humans are helpless against its mysterious power.  But I’ve done this too many times.   I should know by now.

I walk into Starbucks chanting to myself inside my head “Venti Soy No Whip Mocha. Venti Soy No Whip Mocha.”   If I don’t focus on this phrase intently, I will inevitably blurt out something ridiculous when the barista confronts me.  Like “piggly wiggly” or “boobface.”  The pressure of high-speed food service takes a very serious toll on me.

Halfway into my inner Gregorian chant, it happens: my eyes lock with the pastry case.   Cinnamon scones with more calories than a quarter pounder, muffins the size of my face, and danishes that put waddle on my arms with a mere glance.  Every single time I fall for it.  And every single time I throw it away after two bites.  Because Starbucks pastries are just big doughy wads of disappointment.  They parade themselves like beautiful sinful indulgences, but deep down they’re empty, tasteless soul-crushers. 

I thought I had a brilliant solution to this the other day.  I was going to write Starbucks and tell them to outsource their pastry cases to local bakeries.   Local bakers get more business, Starbucks streamlines its cost of goods sold, and Starbucks customers everywhere can pick from the case without fear.

But then I stumbled upon this site and read that  John Moore, who was a corporate marketing manager at Starbucks in 2002 and now writes the Brand Autopsy blog says, “If taken solely as a retailer of pastries, it would be the largest in the U.S.”

Apparently I’m the only one who’s unimpressed.

You know what? I don’t even like coffee.  I drink coffee when I’m faced with the reality of my head hitting the keyboard while I’m at work.  I drink coffee because sometimes it’s the only thing that will kill the images of oversized plush surfaces inside my brain as I long for the sweet nectar of sleep.   I drink coffee only out of a very deep and very sad reality that the night before, I thought it was a better idea to watch 18 episodes of Arrested Development than to go to bed like a responsible adult.

And so I will have to say goodbye to Starbucks.  I can no longer bear the weight of the disappointing pastry case.  And unless all of America is under the same trance as I that accounts for my constant patronage of their sweets and treats, it appears that my suggestion for outsourcing to local bakeries is unnecessary.

I have nothing to offer you, Starbucks, and I can see clearly enough now to know that you have nothing to offer me.  This is clearly an emotionally abusive relationship and I will no longer take part in it.

Here’s to 5 Hour Energy: Bottoms up. ♣

 

P.S.  Thanks so much for your support through Freshly Pressed, guys – I feel all your warm squishy love.  Hiya to my new subscribers – thanks for checking me out.  Now the pressure to post every day is seriously, seriously on.

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Craft Fail 101: Fat, Lumpy Sock Bunny

18 Jan

Ladies and Gentlemen, Happy Lollipop Tuesday.

If you’re new to the beauty that is the Lollipop Tuesday series, check out a brief explanation here.  Otherwise, onward!

Today’s new attempt: Completing a craft tutorial.   Task:  A bunny made out of a sock.

Before I post my pathetic account and my failure of a bunny sock, I should submit a disclaimer.   I attempted the “Quick Little Bunny Tutorial”  featured on Elsie Marley’s Blog (linkity link) without 3 important things –  a baby sock, sewing skills, and patience.   Because after all, the joy of Lollipop Tuesday is in how much I absolutely suck at new things.   I will learn to embrace it.  You will be inspired.

Okay! To start, I had no baby sock.  Thus, I found the smallest sock in my drawer and went with it.  Let the record show that I am a big girl with big feet.  Size 10 feet, to be exact.  Thus, my bunny is… fatter… than the originally intended design. 

Since my sock was a grown-up sock, it was white and dirty and gross.  So to start, I dyed it black.   In honor of Martin Luther King’s birthday.

Those are my good kitchen tongs.

 I was presented with a rather large problem after this dyeing session.  Namely – where to put the dye.   An attempt at rinsing it down the tub dyed the tub black, a security deposit blunder that I’m still trying to undo with a good old fashioned bottle of Clorox even as I write this.

I freaked out, ran to Dave, and asked him what to do with the evidence.    Without hesitation, he replied that I should flush it down the toilet.  And you know what? It worked.

All right – sock is dyed, dye is down toilet, bathtub is soaking.

I have absolutely no patience for anything in life, and didn’t feel like waiting for the sock to dry… so I stuffed it and sewed it while it was dripping wet.   Besides a bad case of granny fingers, I saw no negative repercussions to this.

For some reason, the logo "Hue," which was green before the dye job, turned bright yellow. Chemistry is a bewildering magic.

I feel as if I should reiterate that I have absolutely no sewing skills.  So every time Elsie’s tutorial said “make a running stitch,” I just ignored it and ran the thread around, through, up, and down every which way until it kind of looked like it was supposed to. 

Behold the Big, Fat, Lumpy Bunny

And voila: A big, fat, lumpy bunny made out of an old sock.  I think it speaks volumes about the clarity of Elsie’s tutorial that I did not pursue this project with any degree of passion and had absolutely no sewing skills and yet somehow my end result actually resembles an adorable bunny.  Minus the adorable.

 End result: Down one security deposit, up one useless sock bunny.  Bids start at a penny. ♣

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Regis Philbin Ruined My Brain

17 Jan

 

 

 

 

Regis Philbin: Ruiner of Brains and Dreams. Image: "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire"

 

I have wasted an incredible amount of brain storage for useless pop culture trivia and I fear I will never get it back.

As I approach my quarter-of-a-century life celebration, I’m forced to again wonder how much I can possibly fit inside my brain before other material is pushed out.

Of course, I wondered the same thing in 4th grade and I’ve managed to make room for a decent amount of information since then.

But I can’t help but consider the useless knowledge I’ve racked up in the dusty attic of my cerebrum.  2nd edition rules for Dungeons and Dragons, the proper execution of raids in World of Warcraft, the names, titles, and prior affiliations of bands and artists from the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s, the entire plotline of Battlestar Galactica…  these are all fine details that have proven to be of absolutely no worth in real life.

Unless we are attacked by cylons.  Or wizards.  Then I’m President, no question.

The unfortunate reality of the situation is that these are all areas of study that were self-chosen.  And I’ve decided that there is only one thing to blame: Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.  Well, my incredible affinity for geeky hobbies and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.

Long before people were just handed a million dollars at the beginning of the show only to waste it away, people actually had to work their way up a frightening ladder of trivia in order to have that beautiful, dirty money rain from the sky like confetti. 

Regis would pull the check out after every ladder rung was successfully climbed, just to show the contestant a taste of what could be theirs if only they would walk away.

I watched at home on the edge of my seat.  All the answers up to the $32,000 mark were pop culture questions!  I only had to watch the most recent shows, listen to the most popular music, and watch the most popular videos to successfully work my way up the ladder to being a millionaire.  I spent time committing strange and random facts to memory, like who invented the lava lamp (for your information, it was Edward Craven Walker).  I even prepared for the possibility that a friend would need me when they were in the hot seat and practiced strategies for looking up the answer to a random question in less than 30 seconds. 

My 8th grade math teacher compounded the problem, by reviewing homework and approaching critical thinking questions with the same rules as the popular game show.  He had actually entered to be a contestant and in anticipation of winning a place in the hot seat, he practiced strategies in the classroom.  If I didn’t know something, I could phone a friend,  try 50/50, or poll the entire class.

That turned out to be a policy other teachers were really not okay with.

Somewhere within the deep, dark crawlspaces of my subconcious, I truly believed that someday I would be called upon to represent the human race and be tested with a vast array of pop culture trivia, after which I would undoubtedly win and sprinkle my friends and family with greasy one dollar bills. 

No one ever called.

The popularity of Millionaire began to decline and Regis Philbin bid adeiu.  New game shows were introduced that had nothing to do with knowledge.  America didn’t want to learn things, it wanted to watch people do ridiculous, degrading tasks for money in one minute or less.  They wanted to see beautiful women open suitcases full of cash.  They wanted to hook people up to lie detectors and see how much they can be humiliated before their friends and family before they step off the stage.

The Internet boasted information overload, Americans became dumber, and I became obselete.

I have no idea who is on the top 10 list for music or videos right now.  I don’t know even one song by Justin Bieber, and I had to google his last name just now to make sure I spelled it correctly.   I’m not entirely sure what’s on T.V. these days and I only browse Netflix’s Instant Queu long after popular shows have gone to DVD.

I have become old and oblivious.

If Meredith Viera called me today and asked me if I wanted to be a millionaire, I would admit in the affirmative and then immediately tell her I’m unworthy out of humiliation.   I am no match for today’s game show quizzes.

I wish I could do something with that space in my brain.  I wish I could go back and fill it with another language or Calc 3 or origami, but I can’t.

I can, however, embrace the new path of T.V. game shows.  I can attempt to move three eggs across my kitchen floor only by fanning them with an empty pizza box.  I can practice pulling tissues out of a box one by one as fast as possible and by only using one hand.   I can speed sort M&Ms by color and place them into separate cups one at a time until I am the grand master of the world at M&M speed sorting.

And so I shall.

Guy Fieri and the producers of Minute to Win It: I’ll be expecting your call. ♣

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Behold, the Power of the Pizza Spatula

16 Jan

 

Last night I took a pizza out of the oven with a genuine, certifiable pizza spatula and it made me feel powerful.

I’ve always ignored the part on the package where it says to cook it directly on the oven rack, thinking that whoever writes theses pizza box directions must be out of their minds.  How could they possibly expect me to be able to retrieve the pizza once I’ve sent it into the depths of the oven’s firey belly?

The answer, my friends, is a pizza spatula.  And it will change the way you look at frozen pizzas forever.

I would never buy a pizza spatula.  I don’t think it occurs to many people that this is something they will need to invest in if they want to make only the most delicious frozen pizzas possible.  I only happened upon this particular kitchen utensil thanks to Dave.

See, Dave is always pulling wacky things out of his bedroom,  closets, and pants.  At any given time of day, regardless of his location I can express to him a need for an item that he either has readily on his person or can make available to me given a pacifier, a rubber band, and a paper clip. 

He recently got a winter coat with a grand total of 14 pockets.  Watching him find the keys at the front door has never been such a delight.

Sometimes tire of the wacky items game and attempt to convince him to throw them out.  Case in point: a food processor from the 1950’s that sits in a tote in our closet.  He hangs on to this treasure in hopes that someday I will up my game in the kitchen to include its use.   Perfectly cut potatoes, from-scratch tomato sauce, and perfectly blended creams and icings are all cooking and baking gems trapped with good intention inside that tote. But every once in a while, Dave stumbles out of the abyss of his bedroom and hands me something I think is the absolute coolest thing I will ever see in my life.   And yesterday, it was the pizza spatula.

Try it: go to the store and get yourself a frozen pizza.  Go to Dave’s room and get yourself a pizza spatula.  And then feel the absolute power of retrieving your full-fired pie from the belly of the beast. 

… maybe I really do need to get out m0re. ♣

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